


Let the Light Shine Through

by griever11



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: 8x03, 8x04, Angst, Babies, Family, Gen, Hope, Introspection, Season 8, post ep, tag to season 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 17:20:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21341884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griever11/pseuds/griever11
Summary: Your heart starts healing and it’s a slow process. After all, it’s been in shambles; sharp, cruel pieces of rubble lying on the bottom of your rib cage for so long. Wounds heal, as they say. They’ll scar, and they hurt, but they heal.
Relationships: Oliver Queen/Felicity Smoak
Comments: 19
Kudos: 144





	Let the Light Shine Through

People always tell you life doesn’t give you challenges that you can’t overcome. That whatever it is, face it head on and with determination and everything will work out in your favour. Have faith, they say. Don’t give up hope! 

Yeah. 

Clearly _ people _ aren’t talking about challenges that involve cosmic beings giving your husband unrealistic ultimatums and placing the weight of saving the entire goddamned universe on his shoulders. They’re not talking about having to make peace with the fact that for the foreseeable future, you’re basically a single mom to a collicky, restless, stubborn baby who very much misses her superhero dad. 

Though, growing up as a child of a single parent means you already have like, a whole ton of experience in that regard. Navigating the what to do and what not to do as a single mom should be fairly simple, at least. 

So, thanks Mom. No sarcasm at all _ this time. _

You make a note to actually call your mom and really thank her for _ everything _ because besides the whole single parent thing, she’s also the only adult family you have left in this world who’s not off gallivanting across universes at the behest of Thanos-lite or destroying Lazarus Pits and that’s - 

Just a_ little _depressing. 

You try to ignore the bud of resentment - not at your husband, no, _ never, _but at the universe in general - that threatens to bloom like sunflower in spring every time your baby cries out for her dad. Your heart breaks at the shrill whine that falls from her plump little lips in the morning when she expects her Dada to play toss-the-baby, but Dada never does appear; it’s a punch to your gut when you hear the gasping sobs, the strangled hiccups of desperation when you can’t quite prepare her baby food with the same consistency your husband used to. 

You weather the pitiful looks your neighbours send your way when they see you, waving off their comments about not having seen your husband in a while. You tell them he’s away on a mission (not a lie), that they should understand since they’re all ex-military anyway in their closed off community (not a lie), and that he’s going to return soon, probably around your baby’s first birthday (lie). 

Which turns into a he’ll be back for your birthday (lie).

And then, he’s bringing Chrismukkah presents for everyone (lie).

Until you’ve woven so many lies into the life that you’re leading that you can’t keep them straight anymore and you just - 

Stop caring. 

No, he’s not home yet (truth). 

No, I don’t know when he will be back (truth).

He might never come back (this truth however, you never, never, never voice out loud). 

And after a while, you realise with grim hopelessness that despite how much you don’t want to, and how much you’re fighting against it, you can actually do this _ without _ him. 

Sure, you can’t make mushy peas and sweet potato the way your baby likes it, and sure, being sleep deprived because your baby is a night owl like her dad means you’re basically a walking zombie every day, but you survive. 

There’s a fine balance between spiralling into a pit of dark despair and treading the waters of grief and desolation and you find it. 

Because you have to. 

Because you’re a mom now, and there’s a little helpless baby who’s depending on you to be okay, and be fine, and be strong, so that _ she _ can grow up to be okay, and fine, and strong. A little baby who’s every bit as much like your husband as she is like you, which means she’s stubborn and willful and so very, very gorgeous. Heartbreakingly so, because there’s a part of you that knows your husband might never know this beauty. 

Eventually, you find out that your baby’s laughter lights up your entire life, the way your husband’s used to. 

But it doesn’t happen straight away. She doesn’t learn how to for a long time, longer than what all the books have advised you about. Almost as if the moment her dad left, she knew there was hardly a reason to attempt this new, weird thing called _ laughing _. Why bother? Crying seems to do a good job of eliciting a reaction from good ol’ mom anyway.

Her unwillingness to laugh reminds you of your husband. His laughter used to be a sound so rare and precious that you thought you had to memorise it to treasure it forever. But then it turns out, it had only been so rare because he had no one to bestow it upon. You know this for a fact. 

In the months you were a trio, instead of a sad, floundering duo, your life and your heart were filled with this; his laughter and his smiles and the love that lit up every single dark corner of your heart. You didn’t bother saving them anymore because you didn’t need you to. You thought you had time. All the time in the world.

Because you thought _ surely _no one else is going to leave you. Not now. Not again. 

But_ it _ happens and it’s out of your control and all the light that you’ve accumulated shrinks back behind the cracks and fissures in your heart that you’re doing your best to hold together. Muddling your way through motherhood and single-parentness is enough of a distraction that at first you don’t even realise that the light you’ve worked so hard to protect is slowly winking out of your existence

You take one day at a time, one feed at a time, one sleepless night at a time, gritting your teeth through the familiar pain of loss and loneliness. A strange weariness falls upon your shoulders, and you know that it’s not because you have to care for your baby, not at all, but because you hadn’t planned on doing this alone. 

The plan _ was _to grow old with the love of your life, and never be alone ever again. 

It’s a thought that festers in the depths of your psyche, so very dangerous in its existence, wisps of bitterness slipping into the rest of your existence no matter how hard you try to push it away. 

Until - until the day you hear your baby laugh for the first time. 

It’s barely a tinkle, a gurgle of swallowed noises as she watches you (yet again) curse the goddamned kettle for boiling the water for too long, and causing you to burn your fingers on the steam that’s billowing out the spout. 

You forget the pain in an instant. 

You imitate the same high-pitched yelp from before, holding your finger to your chest, staring at your baby in the high chair with anticipation and then -

_ She laughs again. _

Loud and cheery, all crinkly-eyed and wide-mouthed. Her head rolls backwards, slumping against the headrest of her chair, and she’s slamming her grubby cheese-filled fists on her foldout table, belly rumbling with effort, legs kicking the air in the purest form of joy Felicity has ever seen in her entire life. 

And you realise that your baby - 

Your baby _ is happy. _

That despite everything, despite the bleak possibility of a husband-less future you’re facing, despite your constant struggle trying to be the mother she deserves, your baby is_ happy. _

Which is when you realise that all you’ve been doing since the stupid space lizard (The Monitor, get it?) whisked your husband away to parts unknown, is _ survive. _

You haven’t been living. 

You’ve just been surviving. 

The gaping, yawning hole in your heart has remained gaping and yawning because selfishly, you haven’t tried to fill it. You’re waiting for something you don’t know will happen to happen, putting your life on hold, waiting for a sign that all of this has been a god awful, terrible, nightmare that you’ll one day wake up from. 

A fool’s endeavour. 

And suddenly, in your kitchen, with a blister forming on your poor finger, against the backdrop of your baby’s choking, heartwarming shriek of giggles, you make your choice _ to live. _

Your husband, thoughtful and loving and considerate, had built you a mini-bunker of your own, hidden in the walls of the cabin you now call home. It remained empty and soulless for so long, a stark reminder of what you’ve left behind and what was stolen from you. 

But now, now it’s a symbol of rebirth. 

Your baby has a playpen in the corner of your new mini-bunker. You wake Smoak Tech up from a metaphorical slumber and reconnect with your first love of technology and innovation. You chip away at the weeks (months?) of rust, refamiliarising yourself with your old life. 

Only it’s not your old life anymore. It’s your _ now _life. 

You find your husband fairly easily with a borrowed antimatter detector, stealthily acquired from Star Labs. You roll your eyes at his antics as he traipses through Earth 2, blatantly ignoring the rules of inter-universe travel, and unilaterally decide that if you can’t be there with him - what with a baby gumming her way through your baby-proofed, rubber reinforced (yeah, you learn fast) wiring - then he’ll have to be content with the next best thing. 

You send Diggle to him. 

(Turns out Lyla isn’t happy about _ that, _ so apologetically, you clue her in on both your husbands’ next little adventure in Hong Kong.)

Then you track the telltale antimatter footprint back to Nanda Parbat, a place with fond (first time!) and less fond (everyone dies there) memories. Again, not a great place for a squirmy baby with a love for curling up and sleeping under your purring servers and making a little nest among her numerous stuffed toys, so you send your feelers out to call upon Thea. 

Getting her to come around is a pinch more complicated, because your sister-in-law is (rightfully) indignant and pissed off that you “birthed a whole ass baby with Ollie’s giant head and you didn’t_ tell m _e?” but you manage to appease her by telling her where her brother is, and that she can take it out on him if she wants to. In exchange, she’ll have to help him with whatever the hell he’s doing. 

You tell her not to mention your hand in any of this, since it’ll only serve as a distraction to him. You tell Thea to pretend you never spoke to her, and sagely, with wisdom far beyond her years, Thea agrees. Being distracted is what gave her the nasty scar on her cheek. 

Oh, how much they’ve all grown. 

Funnily enough, your interaction with Thea is what solidifies your resolve to _ be better. _ Here is a girl who grew up lost and alone, entrenched in a bed of lies and deceit and falsehoods. Even if Thea _ has _ turned out to be one of the best people you know in the world, you don’t want your baby girl to grow up the way she had. 

You want your baby girl to grow up knowing_ her _history. 

Your heart starts healing and it’s a slow process. After all, it’s been in shambles; sharp, cruel pieces of rubble lying on the bottom of your ribcage for so long. Wounds heal, as they say. They’ll scar, and they hurt, but they heal. 

You make every effort to keep your baby happy, to churn out laughter after laughter, shielding her from the otherwise rather soulless world out there. With every breath of happiness, with every squeal of delight, every bellyache of laughter, she heals you. Reintroduces the light into your heart, giving you a new found purpose. 

Your conversation with Thea reminds you of Nyssa, the strange assassin with a heart, and you call on her next. In some ways, you feel a kinship with her, and it’s not because of the whole sharing a husband thing, ew, but you both have lost family, through no fault of your own, and besides, Thea mentioned they were done with the Pits, so it’s not like you’re interrupting some big otherworld-ly battle. 

You leave her a message._ If you ever find yourself in need of company, you’re welcome to mine. _ And then to sweeten the deal, adds: _ You can teach my baby how to shoot things, if you like. _

It’s a significant point in your life, you think, making the decision to raise your baby girl this way. 

To teach her about the big, ugly, world out there, while also fiercely protecting her from it, asking an assassin to train her in the art of killing people. You won’t sugar coat life, not the way most people do. You’ll tell her about her dad, about his sacrifice, and pray to all the Gods that exist in the multiverse (except the lizard one, she’s still a little bitter about that) that she understands why her dad had to do what he did. 

She might not at first, but you’re confident that in time she will. You’ll teach her about heroes and resilience and the greater good and most of all you’ll tell her, every single day of your life, that her father loves her. 

Eternally. 

You decide to leave your multiverse travelling husband alone for a while and focus on getting Smoak Tech up and running. With renewed vigor, you start pulling out all your old ideas, schematics and blueprints and for a brief moment, you feel a sense of peace blanketing your soul. You know you’ll see him again, with every fibre of your being. You know he won’t be gone forever, and so you focus your energy on yourself. Your _ life. _ And your baby’s. 

Until one day, your antimatter device goes absolutely crazy (and you don’t know it yet, but this moment marks the moment your life completely upends itself). The alarm blares through your home, shocking your poor baby out of her deep slumber. Amidst the angry wails of a cranky child and your own grumbles of frustration, you enter your bunker, one hand holding the baby to your chest, the other quickly scrolling through the unusual alert, deftly silencing the alarm. 

Your screen is flashing with a big, red, warning. 

_ “Extreme quantities of antimatter residue detected, safety levels not confirmed.” _

Your scans tell you something big has happened._ Big, _ big. Four glowing white dots shimmer on your screen, antimatter levels shooting right off the charts, and as you blink the sleep away from your eyes, you notice that they’re gathered in what used to be your old bunker in Starling City. 

Your heart rate ratchets up a notch. 

You murmur soothingly into your baby’s barely-there tuft of hair, bouncing her in your arms as you navigate through the system that you thought you never had to use ever again. 

As your monitors light up with life, blinding you in the dark of the night, a call comes through the satellite phone you tasked for very special circumstances. 

“Yo, Smoak.” 

You recognise Sara’s lazy drawl in an instant, though the connection is static-ky and unstable. 

“Gideon picked up a time aberration in Star City, right where your base is. You got any idea what that’s about? Looks serious.”

You turn your gaze to your monitors, press your lips together as you take in what you’re seeing before you. 

Of course. 

_ Of course, _ this happens. You leave your husband alone for one week... 

Captivated, you watch the scene on your monitor unfold before you in slow motion. Through the hum of your servers and over the stifled sobbing of your sleepy child, one word rings out from the crackling speakers on your desk. 

_ “Dad?” _

**Author's Note:**

> Don't actually know what this is, wrote it in a fevered 2 hour session because I'm a slave to the words in my head and my heart. 
> 
> Love you all a whole lot. 
> 
> Twitter: @griever_11


End file.
